


Homecoming

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: After the War of Wrath, Gen, SWG Challenge: Block Party, early second age, legendarium ladies april
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: The ships bearing the Army of the West are returning to Alqualondë. Eärwen's mother is waiting.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Combines the 'Textual Ghosts' and 'Use an LLA prompt' prompts from SWG Block Party. I'm using Olwë's wife (Eärwen's mother) as my textual ghost, and using the April 11 LLA prompt.

It was one thing, Súyelírë reflected, to know in theory that a much looked-for event would happen. It was another to actually see the sails filling the horizon as the Host of the West returned – and with them, her daughter and law-son.

At least, she assumed they both were with the fleet. She had some confidence she would have known had her only living child joined her brothers in the Halls. By now, even the Lindar have enough experience with losing their nearest and dearest on the other side of the Sea to be relatively sure of that. But that certainty held only for her daughter. The bond that existed between parent and child was not the same as that between her and her law-son, no matter how dear he was to her.

And she had not known about the deaths of her grandsons. That news had come second-hand, as she tried once, twice, three times to comfort her daughter for a pain the elves knew no comfort for. With Eärwen and her mate both on the other side of Belegaiar, Artanis might have fallen also, one last sacrifice to the Doom of the Noldor, and her grandmother none the wiser.

So close, and yet so far… the wait for the ships to arrive seemed interminable, and Olu was no more patient than Súyelírë was herself. It seemed to take nearly as long as the War itself from the time they sighted the first sail until Eärwen’s ship – Olu’s ship, in truth – was moored on the royal dock.

The daughter that returned to her was not the daughter who had gone. If Eärwen had been marked by the Kinslaying in the Darkness, Beleriand had not merely marked but etched itself on her. Her eyes were so much older…

But Súyelírë could at least hold her in her arms again, and feel her daughter’s relief – concealed, but still there – that her mother was there to welcome her home.

“Mother,” she murmured, and there was so much in that single word that it brought tears to Súyelírë’s eyes.

Arafinwë looked tired. Beneath his happiness to be once again in the land of his begetting, there was a grimness that had not been there before. He too leaned into the embrace when Súyelírë put her arms around him, and did not attempt to move from the hold that she kept on both of them as she turned to steer them back to the palace.

Arafinwë hesitated, though.

“There are wounded,” he began.

“Leave your worries for one night, Ara,” Olu said firmly. “They will be looked after. Your coming is no surprise – we are well prepared. No one will be left on the ships or go wanting.”

“All will be looked after,” Súyelírë confirmed, and felt the slight lessening of tension in Ara’s frame as she said it.

Let the Noldor worry about ceremony, the Lindar were more practical. Every elf streaming off the ships, Lindarin or not, was being welcomed and brought somewhere clean and comfortable to eat and sleep. Willing hands waited to help any off who could not There are some Noldor who had come to await the ships, but most have remained in their own city, heeding the call from Queen Findis to not add to the strain on their friends in Alqualondë.

It would be only family in the palace this night – Súyelírë, Olu, Eärwen, and Arafinwë. Young Elwing had retreated to her own newly built house, for she had already had her news from Beleriand – a mixed blessing, for the word of her sons was both sweet and bitter. To lose a child with no hope of seeing him again, no expectation of reunion in Lorien…

There would, therefore, be no need for Ara or Eärwen to keep their composure before outsiders or younger kin with sorrows of their own. They could say what they would, as they would. And Súyelírë and Olu could also face whatever news there was without an audience.

She did not ask until dinner was winding down – it was more important to her and to her husband to see their children fed and comfortable. (And safe.)

To her surprise, Eärwen brought it up before they could ask – bluntly, with no forewarning.

“Nerwen lives,” she said.

“But she did not come back with you?” Olu said in disappointment.

It was not a question, not really – had she returned, she would have been right after her parents off the flagship, and might well have strained the resolve of the Lindar not to make undue fuss over any person in particular. The tale of her actions at the Kinslaying was well known.

“No, in truth, we barely saw her,” Ara replied heavily. “For much of the war, she was in the East, in or beyond the mountains that marked the edge of Morgoth’s greatest territory. We did not meet until the land was falling beneath the wave, when she and her people appeared to tell us there were places prepared for those who had lost their homes – elf, Man, and dwarf alike.”

“She has a new name now,” Eärwen added. “She’ll answer to her father and mother name if it’s one of us using it, but to everyone else, she is Galadriel.”

“What say her cousins to that?” Olu ventured.

“She has none left to say anything,” Ara replied at least, when it became clear that Eärwen didn’t know how to put it into words. “None of my nephews or nieces live.”

Súyelírë couldn’t help the gasp of shock. They had known from Eärendil that many were dead or presumed so, but only Artanis had survived?

“All of them?” Olu repeated, as stunned as she was herself.

“There are a few survivors in the younger generations,” Ara allowed. “Rillë and her son you know of already. Tyelpë is still alive, and Gildor. Artaresto married and had children in Beleriand, but he and his wife both died well before we arrived.”

“And their daughter,” Eärwen put in quietly.

“His son Gil-galad lives, as do Eärendil and Elwing’s twins,” Ara finished. “There’s no one else.”

“Not quite,” Eärwen amended, an odd glint in her eye. “You skipped one, dearest.”

“We don’t know for certain,” Ara retorted. “Erestor himself has no idea who his parents may be. For all we know, he’s a distant relative whose forebears decided against the Journey. I do not wish to give Nerdanel false hope after all her losses.”

“Erestor?” Súyelírë asked, curious who could have given a child such a name.

“He’s part of the little cluster our surviving kin call family – and the spitting image of Naro’s son Carnistir,” Ara explained. “But he’s an orphan, left at the Falas and brought up by Cirdan. I can’t see any of my nephews abandoning a child. For Nienna’s sake, look what Nelyo and Kano did!”

It was just as well young Elwing wasn’t here this evening, Súyelírë reflected, as she had a rather different perspective on her sons being brought up by Fëanaro’s eldest.

“What of Ingo’s boy?” she asked instead, trying to divert what sounded like it might be a standing disagreement between the pair.

“Gildor is hale and healthy, happy, and not about to abandon Nerwen or Gil-galad no matter how delighted he was to have grandparents,” Eärwen sighed. “But I am not so confident as Ara that Moryo might not have left a child to others if he thought the boy safer without him – just as I am still not convinced Gildor is an adopted son.”

That was another shock. Ingo had told them much about his son, the apple of his eye and his greatest worry, eclipsing even his concern for his little sister. His mate Amarië fretted over the son she’d never seen as much as if she’d raised him herself. Both would be heartsick that he hadn’t returned with the fleet.

“Silver hair is far more common among the Lindar in Beleriand,” Ara said patiently. “And grey eyes are far from unusual.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve explained the eyes and disregarded my contention that his jaw and expressions are your father’s!” Eärwen exclaimed. “But that hair of his is not just silver, and not one golden-haired elf did I see in Beleriand who was not your kin in some degree!”

“Do you really suppose Artë wouldn’t know if the boy were Ingo’s by blood?” Olu snorted.

“Of course not,” Eärwen sniffed. “I’m sure she could tell us more on the subject. But as I’ve already said, we saw precious little of her – little enough that if she were covering for her big brother, she could be relatively certain we wouldn’t waste any of our time with her on unpleasant topics.”

Súyelírë had to smother a laugh, because that was a novel tack for Artanis to take – usually she’d aim for misdirection, whether by admitting to some lesser infraction, or by simply keeping the conversation so determinedly elsewhere that you never got around to whatever it was she didn’t want to discuss.

“I look forward to meeting both young men,” she said. “Do you have any notion when that might be?”

Eärwen’s frown of discontent said that this upset her more than whatever disharmony there was between her and her mate on the subject of the boys’ parentage.

“As to that, Mother, no one can say – Nerwen hasn’t the least intention of begging anyone’s forgiveness for going to Beleriand, so she doesn’t plan on returning anytime soon. I cannot speak for Erestor, but I would be greatly surprised if Gildor were willing to sail without her.”

“It is not only that which keeps her there,” Ara said softly, more to Eärwen than to her parents.

“Nor is it all grim news,” he continued, and this was meant for all. “Celeborn talks hopefully of children now that the Enemy has been defeated. His people speak of flowers springing up to bloom after wildfires. They are optimistic that the lands that did not fall beneath the wave are fair and good and mean to make homes there. Celeborn and Artë are far from the only ones who see no need to cross the Sea just yet.”

“What of Celeborn and Elu’s people?” Olu asked cautiously.

“Celeborn and his cousin Oropher look to young Elrond now that Elros has chosen the fate of Men. I’m not sure that’s entirely good for the boy, but he intends to stay there as well.”

Eärwen snorted.

“Intends? Made sure he would is more like it – he took himself off to the mountains for the last few weeks, just to be sure none of us Amanyar would get notions about enticing him onto a ship.”

Arafinwë smiled and continued as though there had been no interruption.

“Oropher lost wife and child in the Kinslaying at Menegroth, but his older son Thranduil lives. There are still a good number of Iathrim, but they are not all of the same mind on where to go now that they have no need to hide behind protected borders. It may be that Celeborn, Oropher, and Elrond will all end up leading groups of them – and perhaps young Thranduil too, in time.”

“It may be as long again as they’ve been gone or more before she returns then,” Olu sighed. “They will hardly sail with young children. I should have liked to meet Artanis’ children as children.”

Olu spoke wistfully, but Súyelírë saw pain in Eärwen’s eyes – her daughter had not seen enough of her grandson in the years in Beleriand, certainly not enough to make up for missing his childhood entirely, and the thought that she might have more grandchildren unseen and unknown but for letters or secondhand news months out of date at best was a bitter one.

“Flowers after a fire, indeed,” Olu chuckled. “There, there, little one. Take heart, I’m sure they’ll all arrive in due time. Nerwen never could hold a grudge for long. Sooner or later she’ll see the sense of making a polite apology to smooth things over.”

Ara snorted at that, a sound so reminiscent of his father it nearly hurt. Better to let Findis tell him the news about that when he reached Tirion.

“This one may take a while to die,” he said drily. “But at least we know she lives and that our kin in Lindon – that’s what they call the land nearest the Sea now that Beleriand is no more – are safe. It is more than we’ve been able to say since they marched off. A small blessing, I suppose, but it’s something.”

Súyelírë raised her glass – filled with the wine they’ve been saving for happy news. She would rather end the meal on a hopeful note than have Eärwen retire for the night brooding on painful subjects.

“To small blessings,” she said. “And unruly wildflowers.”


End file.
